Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

With a moue of distaste at the moldy patina on the leather, Martin slipped the pouch into his shirt. He hoisted his box again and set his false ear to the door. Even with the prosthetic on, his implant gave him more acute hearing than any unenhanced ear. He could mark the progress of the cart by the squeaks, and the progress of the maid by the soft knock and the sound of an opening door.

When he was sure she was safely in the next room and the corridor was clear, Martin moved. It was out, down and away with his prize, his only concern that it had been too easy.

THE PACKET OF loose papers Charlotte had retrieved crawled with scribbled notes and hasty sketches. There were also a panoply of scattered letters, numerals and mathematical symbols, but Charlotte insisted it wasn’t actually a cypher and Dexter was not inclined to argue. His attention was torn at best anyway—between the paper scattered across the broad table in the restaurant’s private dining room, Charlotte and Murcheson’s discussion of what was on those documents and his own vivid memories of the previous night.

He had run a bath and mustered up what food he could for Charlotte, assuming she would fall asleep immediately afterward. After a few bites of a sandwich and two cups of tea, however, she astonished him by dragging him into bed for a bout of fierce, celebratory lovemaking. Sated, exhausted, she finally collapsed into a deep slumber with her head still snuggled against his shoulder.

Dexter’s body still tingled from the manic intensity of the interlude, but what kept his mind returning to it was the memory of Charlotte’s weight against his chest and the utter trust and relief on her face as she drifted off. He knew her expression had mirrored his own. Relief and humble gratitude, because having her back in his arms was nothing short of miraculous.

With Herculean effort Dexter focused on the present, on the task at hand. He’d expected that finding the plans intact would be the end of Charlotte’s mission, and Murcheson confirmed that her work in France was officially done, but it seemed the documents had only raised a host of new questions. Or rather, old questions that Reginald’s truncated tour of duty had left unanswered. While it wasn’t Charlotte’s job to answer them, Murcheson was willing to listen to her perspective on the possible chain of custody of the packet she’d recovered. Even with the notes recovered, the question of how the documents wound up in Dubois’s hands to begin with was still critical. Only by knowing who’d held the notes, and when, could Murcheson be certain none of the parties had obtained a copy at any point along that chain.

“You’ve said the French claimed that Martin went rogue after the treaty, so you assumed he was really still working for the Égalité, retrieving the documents from Dubois, when he tangled with Reginald,” Dexter said, breaking several minutes’ silence. “But I wonder, what if he was really working for Dubois and the post-royalists all along? Perhaps Martin was just then bringing the documents to Dubois’s office, when Reginald encountered him. That would still leave the question of where Martin obtained the packet, of course.”

Murcheson’s usually implacable demeanor slipped as Dexter’s suggestion registered. Dexter could almost see the thoughts working themselves out on the man’s face, as a spark of possibility caught, took hold, lit him with excitement. “We never put it together that way before, but then I don’t think anyone really considered the importance of Couer de Fer’s history in all this until Charlotte saw him in the Palais Garnier. The fellows who identified Jacques Martin, Dubois’s security expert, as a former Égalité agent, only saw the connection Martin once had with the French and knew he’d left their service under something of a cloud. They still assumed he was aligned with the Agency in some way in his new capacity, and lumped him together with the other known agents in Dubois’s employ.”

Charlotte sat up straighter. “But if Martin was a post-royalist all along, wouldn’t that mean Dubois still is as well? The French would have to have known that. What if the agents at his company aren’t there to liaise with the government, but to keep an eye on Dubois and possibly on Martin as well?”

Murcheson tapped his nose. “But at the time, seven years ago, they didn’t suspect Martin was working for the other side. It all falls into place then. He could have taken those documents directly from Égalité’s HQ. From his colleague Simone Vernier, the French agent who acquired them from the laboratory in Cambridge.”

“Simone Vernier? The same agent who pretended to be Dubois’s mistress?” Charlotte asked.

Murcheson nodded. “The same. It was hardly a pretense, however. The French take a much more liberal line with these things than we do, and he wouldn’t have kept her as a mistress if she hadn’t, well . . . played the part with conviction. She died in his bed, after all. Vernier made many a noble sacrifice for her country.”

“Like his current secretary,” Dexter offered, stifling a grin when Charlotte glared at him. “Another woman who positively drips with nobility and patriotism.”

“Here now,” Murcheson huffed.

“Apologies. Especially as this new information suggests the young woman in question may indeed be using her wiles to spy on Dubois for her country, just as Vernier did, rather than using them to ensure she keeps an easy job as liaison between Dubois and the Égalité. It seems they still trust him about as well as we do. Charlotte, may I see those notes?” Dexter gestured, and Charlotte shuffled together the sheaf of papers, handing the stack to him as Murcheson cleared his throat ostentatiously and continued talking.

“This could narrow things down considerably. If Martin acquired the notes directly from Vernier, and hadn’t yet delivered them to Dubois when Reginald intercepted them, that means Dubois couldn’t have made a copy. And we’re already fairly certain the French government never had time to do so. By the time Reginald was sent to Paris, the French were already beginning to panic and the government here was in turmoil. They’d got wind of the invention that this team at Cambridge were allegedly perfecting—not an invention, really, but a formula for an explosive. One so powerful that a lump no larger than your fist could have wiped a city the size of Paris off the map.”

Dexter’s mouth dropped open. “It really is a doomsday device! See, I told you, Charlotte.”

“I’m sure that’s an overstatement.”

“Not much of one,” Dexter said quietly, staring at the pages in front of him in disbelief now that he had enough context to know what he was seeing. Even though chemistry wasn’t his area of expertise, Dexter knew enough to tell that if the substance described in the notes were actually concocted, and one could keep it stable enough to transport it, it might indeed flatten a city with a single explosion. He could feel the blood drain from his face as he envisioned the scenario. A fist-sized lump wouldn’t do it, but a steam car full of the stuff most certainly could. “It’s one of those formulas that’s frighteningly simple. I have no idea why this hasn’t been done already. You’re right to worry that the French might have a copy of these papers. It’s a terrifying prospect.”

“It was a lucky bluff, in the end. As far as I know, our chaps never could stabilize the substance in large enough quantities to use it in any meaningful way,” Murcheson explained. “We assumed that the French had been working with these notes for years but had experienced the same difficulty, hence their continued willingness to abide by the treaty. It seemed as though they thought we’d deduced the secret of how to use the stuff without blowing ourselves to kingdom come, but they still hadn’t. That was a source of great relief, of course, as after these notes were stolen we’d feared the worst. And once we heard that Gendreau was being courted by a former arms manufacturer who was once a prominent post-royalist sympathizer, well . . . it seemed certain there was a plan to revive this research. That, my friend, would have been a terrifying prospect indeed. With help from Dubois’s network of factories and freight transport, the post-royalists could have blown us all to smithereens with that information, French and English alike.